by S. A. Tholin
That's the downside to a suit like that. Keeps you alive longer than you wish it would. Rhys's words echoed in her memory, and her chest tightened with sudden need for him and the others. Where were they? Seventy-two hours, Cassimer had said, but her HUD told her it had been more than one hundred and ninety-six, and she couldn't stop worrying about the commander who'd kissed her like nobody else ever had, like -
- like he loved her -
- and she pushed that thought away, because with every passing second, new horrors occurred to her (the Epona fell down a mineshaft/they were struck by lightning/drifters made blankets out of their skin). Unbearable and stupid, because she was the one not two metres away from Scarsdale.
Couldn't afford to worry about the others when death was so close she could smell it.
"Don't get smart with me, Doc. I'm not in the mood," Scarsdale said.
"I'm not being 'smart', and frankly, neither are you. My medical opinion is that you should get on that fancy ship of yours and fly to the nearest hospital. You're dying. I can slow it down, and I can mitigate the symptoms, but staying on Cato is signing your own death warrant."
"You just keep the happy-drugs flowing and let my suit worry about the rest. It'll keep me alive."
"Yes, it's a remarkable piece of technology. But not miraculous."
"Can't leave yet. Not until I get the Primo bastard that killed my crew." Scarsdale touched his face, his fingers coming away dark with inked skin, the spectres of tattoos on his fingertips. "When I find him, I'm going to..."
"I believe you described your vengeful desires in vivid detail during your last appointment. You also told me that you already shot the man several times, crushed his hand and broke his spine. Sounds like a dead man to me. Sounds like you're killing yourself chasing a ghost."
"Worse than a ghost. An aberration. They don't die like you or me, the Primaterre. I put a bullet in a Primo's head once. Close range too; found a bit of his brain inside my jacket pocket afterwards. Less than a week later, our base was attacked, and who was leading the charge? None other than that very Primo. Hell, I still had that piece of brain - kept it in a jar to show the lads, good bit of fun, yeah - but he didn't seem to miss it one bit."
"So they have excellent medical care. Matters little on Cato."
"They're monsters, Doc. As the Earth has seasons, so too does man. We grow and we blossom, we mature and we die, and from our seed, the new spring is born. The Primaterre seek to destroy this cycle. They keep Mother Earth from us so that our progeny will be shaped in the light of alien stars. They lace their bones and flesh with metal and synthetics, and corruption flows in their blood."
"You have your share of implants," Voirrey said, "and you wear Primaterre armour. A hypocrite as well as a madman, I take it."
A burst of laughter was quickly interrupted by wet coughing. Scarsdale spat bloody phlegm before continuing. "Listen to the mouth on you, Doc. Tell you what, if you were a decade younger, I'd change my mind about not being in the mood."
"How very discriminating for a man who's shedding skin all over my floor." Voirrey stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. "As for the Primaterre, I do know their kind. Thugs who think wearing a uniform gives them carte blanche, who see orders as a relief from having to bother to think, who blur the lines between 'soldier' and 'murderer' until there is no difference other than in the lies they tell themselves."
"I didn't think the Primaterre were around when you went into cryo-sleep."
"They weren't, but others like them were. Always have been, I imagine, since the very first ape that figured out it could pick on weaker apes. By tooth and nail, rock and club, gun and cannon, they've clawed their way up the evolutionary ladder. You may get dressed, by the way."
As Scarsdale zipped his bodysuit over trembling flesh, Voirrey picked up a pack of cigarettes from a table.
"Mind if I have one?"
"Go right ahead, Doc."
She pulled one out and lit it, but didn't put it to her lips. Instead, she held it up, her eyes crossing slightly as she watched the tip glow. "My home planet was rife with men like the Primaterre. Men who would report you to the authorities if you wore clothes they didn't like. Men who thought that a woman speaking her mind was more dangerous than any weapon. Men who believed in almost exactly the same things as other men, and also believed that 'almost' was enough to shed blood over. My family fled these men, seeking a new life, but it's not as easy as that. Oh, we left the old world behind, but brought the old ways right along. It became clear to me that if I wanted to truly escape, I had to choose between being a daughter and being free. I shed my kin, my clothes, my traditions and even my name. I loved these things, deeply, but they marked me for what I had once been and no longer wished to be. Faith is a sickness, Andrew, and to rid myself of it, I had to excise it by the root. By my roots."
Voirrey paused to take a drag of the cigarette. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "So I know the damage men like the Primaterre can do. I just don't care for the mystical nonsense. Why dress the truth in fancy clothing when nude is its most beautiful form?"
"Let me put it to you plainly, then. The Primaterre are expansionist pigs who laid waste to my home world in the name of 'human progress'. Two of my brothers are languishing in Primaterre prisons for the crime of protecting themselves and what was theirs; another three are ash and bone." He motioned for Voirrey to pass the cigarette. She gave it to him, and he stuck it between his lips.
"I made them pay, I did. A city for a planet and ten Primo VIPs for every one of my brothers. Not a fair exchange rate, it's true, but a good start. Made a bit of a name for myself too - Andrew Scarsdale, Liberator of Karelia. Not quite a legend, but taking the head of that fucker Cassimer will write my name in the stars, just you wait and see."
"Cassimer. That the name of the ghost you're chasing?"
"At least he claimed it was. Could've been lying, but his cunty attitude seemed about right for a Primaterre hero. I suppose you've never heard of him, but you know those monkeys you were going on about?"
"Apes," Voirrey corrected.
"Yeah, well, you just go ahead and picture the biggest and nastiest ape imaginable, only worse, because at least apes follow their natural instincts. They may be vicious, but they're not insane." Scarsdale handed the cigarette back to Voirrey, who put it between her lips without hesitation. "He's a big deal to the Primaterre. Famous enough that they made a movie about him. Reckon the sequel will get more hits, though. Once we capture this asshole, we're going to live stream his death to every civilised system. I'm voting decapitation, but some of the lads like the idea of immolation. Say it'll be symbolic."
"Sounds barbaric to me."
"That's the whole point, Doc. Most Primos spend their entire lives light-years from anything resembling conflict. My planet was taken from me and, to them, it was just another headline to ignore while browsing the latest celebrity gossip. We suffer while they prosper in ignorance. But when they watch me cut their hero's head off - why, I reckon that'll make them choke on their cereal."
"You'll make him a martyr to their cause."
"Maybe. But the next time they see his face or hear his name, they'll remember that he died like a dog on a distant dust-bowl. And if that could happen to him, it could happen to anyone of them. We're going to take their hero and turn him into an unpleasant reminder."
"Hmm." Voirrey stubbed out the cigarette and the topic of conversation in one smooth move. "What about the other matter we discussed?"
"Told you, Doc, the deal was for Duncan to help us get the tech from the arc ship. Don't see Duncan and don't see any tech. Deal's off."
"Come on, Andrew."
"Look," Scarsdale said, his voice softening. "If it were up to me, I'd take you with us. Always good to have a doctor around; especially one that isn't stingy with the painkillers. But the captain doesn't want any trouble with the locals. The mayor wants you to stay on, says you're 'one of them', and the captain likes being
able to use this dump of a planet as a hidey-hole for our most wanted."
"Fine," said Voirrey, in a tone of voice that meant the exact opposite. "But I have a new deal to offer your captain. A seat on your shuttle in return for information. For instance, I know that Duncan never told you about Joy's arrangement with the Primaterre."
"What arrangement?"
Voirrey ignored the question. "I told him that he'd be better off being honest with you, but he was concerned for Joy's safety. Thought you might not let her come with us if you knew."
"Would've strung her up from the nearest lightning tree."
Voirrey shrugged. "Makes no difference anymore. She died on the Ever Onward -"
"Unconfirmed."
"Please." Voirrey made a face. "If the redhead you saw was Joy, the girl is dead. But her secrets didn't die with her. I can tell you what the Primaterre wanted her to procure. Where she met them. Who she met with. I'm no soldier, but I think that sort of detail might be of use to you. Enough use to earn me a way off this hellhole."
"I could beat the information of you here and now, and then put a bullet in the back of your head for not telling us sooner."
"You could, but then you'd be stuck with Sumner as your doctor." Voirrey indicated her cowering assistant. At the mention of his name, he twitched. "He knows enough to tell an arse from an elbow, but that's about the extent of his abilities."
Scarsdale laughed. "All right, Doc. Let's go speak with the captain."
The clinic's walls shook as Scarsdale made his exit. His massive shape scraped against hovels, and in his wake, Voirrey followed. Her hair was drawn back into a sloppy bun, and her white coat had turned grey with grime. The doctor had sloughed her civilised veneer and surrendered to Cato.
Because she thinks she's alone. Because she thinks her family died with the Ever Onward. Because without them, without you and Duncan, she is forgotten.
"I know, Finn," Joy whispered to the brother who wasn't there. "But I'm going to prove her wrong."
◆◆◆
Sumner left the clinic soon after Voirrey and Scarsdale. A little too soon, as though he was in a hurry to pass on what he'd heard. The idea of him whispering in the mayor's ear made Joy worried for Voirrey, but the doctor had chosen to play this dangerous game, and Joy couldn't intervene. Not while she was playing her own game.
The clinic door was locked, of course, but Voirrey wasn't the only person to know a secret or two. There was a loose brick in the floor of the abandoned shack next door, and Joy turned it over to find a spare key. Voirrey could recite medical texts by heart and diagnose hundreds of ailments with little more than a cursory glance, but for the life of her, she could not keep track of keys and always kept a spare nearby.
The clinic was on the same downwards trajectory as Voirrey. The floor was clean, save for the skin and mucus Scarsdale had deposited, and most of the medical instruments looked washed, if not exactly sterilised. But Voirrey no longer organised her meagre shelf of pharmaceuticals alphabetically, and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes and rags. The strict order had gone, replaced by listless chaos.
Doesn't look so bad to me.
"That's because your apartment is a hovel," she said, deliberately avoiding the past tense. Finn was dead, she knew that, and his apartment was a thousand light-years and a hundred and twenty regular years away, but knowing it wasn't the same as saying it. She would, eventually, just as she'd stop talking to him eventually, but not yet.
The examination table had been pushed aside to accommodate Scarsdale. A giant footprint smudged a tile that Joy knew to be loose. Carefully, she pried it from the floor. There was a safe at the back of the clinic, but Voirrey had said that a safe was nothing but a good way of telling thieves where to find the goods. Instead, she'd hidden her valuables underneath the floor.
"They belong to all of us," Voirrey had once said.
Yes. Back when there had been an us, no matter how loosely defined. Before they'd started losing hope by the bucket load, and before a foreign war had forced them onto different sides. Before Duncan had died.
Four medical containers were all Voirrey had managed to grab from the Ever Onward. The top one was nearly depleted, which was a bit of a surprise. Voirrey's attitude towards the locals was little better than Rhys's - she'd never have got the good stuff out to treat a Nexus regular.
Scarsdale. Joy ran her fingers across the remaining vials of drugs. Fragile. Easy to break. Without them, the Ereshkigal suit might not be enough, and then Scarsdale would never get his peeling hands on Cassimer.
But Voirrey would discover the sabotage and know who'd done it - the only person who could have. Besides, Scarsdale wasn't the mission. Not now and hopefully never.
One jet injector and a vial of sedative were all she needed. Maybe two vials, to be extra safe? She hesitated, then took three. Voirrey would notice their absence in time, but with any luck, everything would be over by then.
One way or another, said Imaginary Finn.
◆◆◆
The polished hull of Hal's shuttle gleamed under the low lights of the spaceport. It looked out of place in the boneyard of corroding ships; a sleek shark amongst beached whales. Its airlock gaped open, as always. Joy had hidden inside the decaying cockpit of a Cascade repair ship for two entire nights, and even as the cold had grown unbearable and screams bounced and echoed around the yard, Hal hadn't closed his airlock. Odd. Even Voirrey, the invaluable doctor and favourite of the mayor, wouldn't go to sleep without locking and barring her door. Joy had thought nobody safe on Cato.
A grimy old shower curtain hung from a rail above the airlock. It was brittle to the touch, crackling drily as Joy pushed it aside, but the printed design was still legible. A stylized picture of a copper-and-brick city underneath a dome-shaped blue sky, and below that, the words:
When You've Seen Cato, You've Seen The Universe
Behind the hopefully incorrect shower curtain, a bare corridor continued onwards for about ten metres before forking. It looked safe enough, but her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy. She took a tentative first step inside.
"Welcome aboard the Esmeduna. Thank you for choosing to travel with Croxteth Connexions," a voice cheerfully announced through a speaker system. Along the corridor floor, light strips turned warmly yellow.
There had to be some way of turning the lights and the noise off, but the buttons on a nearby console did nothing. The only other thing was an unlabelled red lever near the airlock. She hesitated, afraid of what it might do, but then the speakers started playing ambient music. Crossing her fingers and toes, she pulled the lever.
The shuttle shuddered as long-idle mechanisms clicked and spun. A loud hiss came from the airlock as two round doors rolled out and into place. A dusty old display flickered to life, and below a thick layer of grime, the word SEALED glowed.
So much for the element of surprise. She waited at the airlock for a few minutes, one trembling hand around the grip of her gun.
The music faded, but the lights were still on, following her as she moved down the corridor. Croxteth Connexions seemed insistent that none of their passengers spend a single moment in darkness.
Back pressed against the wall, she peeked around the corner. No sign of Hal, but a choice presented itself. Left, down a set of stainless-steel stairs, or right, down a hallway that ended in a set of stairs going up - which seemed an altogether more positive direction.
There were doors on both sides of the corridor. As she approached the first, a display switched on, brightly informing her that this was the passenger seating area, and to please touch her hand to the sensor on the right to open the door.
She knew what Finn would've said (you have to) and what Cassimer would say (you need to), but much as she respected them both, neither man was with her. And so she put the question to herself: do I want to open it?
Yes, came the answer, clear and true. Because I want to know. I've always wanted to know.
One day, when she was five
years old and lying sick in the hospital, the nurse had pulled Finn aside to tell him why their parents were running so late. Joy hadn't understood at first. She hadn't understood why Finn suddenly got so angry, why he'd yelled at the nurse until she left the room in tears, why - as soon as the door slammed shut - he'd fallen to his knees. She hadn't understood why, once he could speak again, their parents weren't coming. Why they were dead. Why they had to keep being dead.
Finn had never asked why. When the nurse had returned, flanked by social workers, he'd demanded to know how. They'd not told him much then, of course, but over the years, Finn had pieced it together, bit by bit, laying a grisly puzzle of details until the accident was as clear in his mind as if he'd witnessed it. It was the only mystery that had ever interested him, and he'd pursued the truth as if it would somehow give him the key to stopping tragedy from reoccurring.
But while Finn had lived a life of how (how to be safe/how to be prepared/how to shoot), Joy had never quite stopped wondering why.
She placed her hand on the sensor.
Why did the Ever Onward come to Cato? Why were the cryo pods removed? Why is my brother gone?
Mystery lay behind every door, and she would fling them all open and let the light pour in; truth be her sword and clarity her shield. Finn had taught her how, and she would uncover the why.
The door slid open to a quiet room and a far wall made of glass, presumably to give passengers an impressive view. She dared not step inside. The auto-lights would turn the room into a lightshow, starring her as the main attraction. Instead, she fished the flashlight from her backpack.
Red lichen tumbled from ventilation shafts, feathery tendrils draping across aisles. There were three aisles in total, stretching along the length of the shuttle, enough to accommodate a hundred passengers. The arm-rests had been torn from the closest seats, and a bundle of blankets indicated that someone had slept there. Perhaps more than someone - as Joy stood on her tippy-toes and swept the flashlight across the room, she saw more bundles, some covering human-like shapes.
